


Neighbourhood Files | Clapham Case Study #1

by ItsSweaterWeather



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Light BDSM, Mild Dom Sherlock, Mild Sub Molly, Mild foot worship, Oral Sex, POV Molly, POV Molly Hooper, Post TFP, Public Sex, Sherlolly - Freeform, Sherlolly free-form, straight up appreciation for the Sherlock Strut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-13 16:43:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11189199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsSweaterWeather/pseuds/ItsSweaterWeather
Summary: Molly's flat is in Clapham. Sherlock resides in Marylebone. That's a lot of ground to cover. A series of stories, then, following their post-TFP relationship and what they get up to - down to - in each neighbourhood. Not all situations lead to oral sex. But this one does..(please note: there is absolutely no clueing for looks)Sherlock lavished the same treatment on the other four, kissing and blowing and sucking each toe as music filled the space around them. “I like your toes this color, Molly.”“Ah uh.” She squirmed under his hands, his mouth. She didn’t know if it was the wine, the sultry weather or their location - on a public green - but Molly could feel everything from the scent of his posh soap to the sound of his voice inside her skin, like some sort of magic spell that attached feathers to the physiological data rippling through her nervous system.“I’m sorry. I should stop so you can continue reading.”Molly almost whimpered at the loss of his mouth on her skin. “Em…Em…okay. Okay,” she breathed, unable to focus on the typeface. “‘Are you aching for me, duchess, he growled. Do you want me here? He parted her slick folds…'” Molly swallowed hard.





	Neighbourhood Files | Clapham Case Study #1

Molly slipped the paperback into her tote and rolled on her back. She’d walked over to Clapham Common from her flat several hours ago, nubby gray striped blanket under her arm. Her favorite spot was under the big alder in a sparsely populated grove at the edge of the green. No better way to spend a day off than hidden by branches, enjoying a book and a chilled bottle of wine. As afternoon slid into evening, the lawn abutting the grove filled with people - couples, small families, groups of girlfriends - setting up picnics nearer to the bandstand. The musical programme wouldn’t begin for another thirty minutes but Molly’s little paradise was fast becoming less so.

She sat up and drained her plastic picnic goblet. The wine seeped into her veins, producing a pleasant, soft-limbed haziness. She should go home, edit her lecture notes…

Molly poured a fresh glass and did nothing for the next few minutes except admire her bare legs and berry-colored toes. Mortuary duties prevented her from polishing her fingernails but Molly never neglected her toes, especially during sandal season.

She sighed. It was sheer pleasure having such a lovely day to herself.

Although he’d often talked about joining her, spending a warm afternoon lazing in the Common wasn't Sherlock’s cup of tea - even if the evening’s programme included selections from Mendelssohn and Mozart as it did tonight. It would’ve been nice to have him but her enjoyment hadn’t diminished with his absence. The day was warm. She had wine. And she’d left a stack of research articles on her desk in favor of a guilty pleasure: Regency vampire romance.

Cheerful warble floating off the playground kept her from diving too deep into the book’s sexier passages so she dog-eared the pages to reread in bed later. "A one-handed read," she giggled, toasting the sky and taking another luxurious sip of the crisp vintage.

Molly spotted him walking up the paved path from the bandstand. She couldn’t make out his face from this distance but she’d know that gait anywhere, even without the Belstaff trailing behind him. She settled back against the tree trunk and watched him approach.

The sun had just started to set. Golden rays skimmed the lawn and glinted off the coppery strands hidden among his dark curls. Her belly fluttered. God, she loved it when his hair did that.

He wore the same suit he’d purchased for Rosie’s christening, a fine tropical weight wool in dark periwinkle. You didn’t have to run a hand over the weave to know the fabric was posh. It fell like water over his lean frame. The suiting’s color mimicked the rich, sparkling blue of his irises. Not that she could see his eyes. Black, almost opaque, sunglasses hid his intense gaze, the perfect accessory for keeping the world at bay while observing every aspect of it in plain sight.

After nine years of acquaintance and three months of _more than friendship_ , her body reacted to his presence, vibrating at a constant, low hum whenever he was close, as if he plucked each of her molecules like strings on a violin.

Having the entire length of the green in which to admire him was fine tuning within a hairsbreadth of orgasm.

Shameless. He was absolutely shameless, a peacock out on promenade made all the more alluring because it was never his intent to garner attention for his looks. Intimidate? Yes. Sexually arouse? No. Not unless he cultivated the interest first. Poor boy wanted to impress with the size of his massive intellect.

Instead, it was the cut of his trousers that dazzled before he even spoke.

Molly almost felt sorry for him. _Almost._

The distance between them dwindled, the finer details of his appearance coming into focus.

His sky blue shirt, crisp and unmarred even in this heat, was unbuttoned at the collar exposing luminous skin and the constellation of tiny moles scattered along the column of his neck. She’d traced those marks with her tongue only two days ago…

Liquid heat pooled at Molly’s core. She crossed her legs and put the wine glass to her lips but did not sip. The rim provided cover for her to watch the meandering groups part, ceding the center of the paved path to his long, effortless strides. Quite a few women (and several men) cast appreciative glances his way. Try as she might, Molly couldn’t keep a smug smile from touching her lips. The park was crawling with beautiful, sun-kissed people in trendy summer outfits. He bypassed all of them in favor of the petite, bookish woman tucked into the shade wearing a charity shop floral sundress and a ponytail.

He was thirty feet away. Sunlight grazed his high cheekbones, highlighted the straight line of his nose. A breeze rustled his hair. He combed elegant fingers through it, setting the strands back into place.

Off the path now, sure-footed through the uneven grass. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten…nine…

“Ah, Molly. I thought I might find you here.” His deep voice caressed her bare shoulders, silky as the summer air.

“Could it be because this is where I spend most of my days off?”

“Mmmm… could be.”

Sherlock removed his jacket, set it across her tote and stretched out beside her, head near her bare feet. His mundane gracefulness made her breath hitch. “I…em…I have some wine but I don’t have another glass—“

“I don’t mind.” He accepted her offer and took a large swallow. She watched the muscles of his neck work, mesmerized. “Chenin Blanc. Very good.” He smiled wide, tight lipped. Dangerous. “Anyway, we’ve shared more than saliva in the past three months.”

Molly was thirty-eight years old, had been sexually active since she was eighteen, yet his words - although the truth - produced a crimson flush over her throat, cheeks, ears. Delivered as they were from someone hidden behind dark glasses made their meaning sound all the more base.

She loved the meaning and the way they fell from his lips.

Three months. Ninety days and nights since they’d first had sex. After coming to terms with their _I love yous_ , they’d dropped the pretense of a decade-long friendship.

And had fucked like rabbits ever since.

The spring in Molly’s belly tightened. First-time sex, rough sex, sweet sex, kinky sex, make-up sex, sleepy sex… Sex in his bed. Sex in her bed. Sex in her shower. Sex in his chair.

A quickie at John’s. That just sort of happened…

“You should’ve told me you were stopping by. I would’ve packed us a picnic or something.”

“Not a problem.” He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his shirtsleeves, exposing the undersides of his forearms. Long bones wrapped in blue veins and hard muscle.

He checked his watch. Such an archaic movement so many years into the 21st century. But Molly couldn’t imagine either Holmes brother referring to their mobiles for the time. Where was the sartorial elegance in that?

Although he could afford a flashier timepiece, something in the price range of, say, a small car, Sherlock relied on the practical. His was an understated Swiss model with a sliver face and a classic leather band strapped just above the protruding knob of his ulna. She’d spent at least fifteen minutes making love to that bone earlier in the week…

Molly squeezed her ankles together.

“There’s an excellent French restaurant on Abberville Road." He smoothed the front of his shirt, setting off the faint outline of his nipples, his slim torso, and rolled onto his back. "Perhaps we'll head there. _After_...” He stared up at the tree limbs, arms folded behind his head, legs crossed. His tone commanded the space between her ears but Molly didn’t register anything he’d said beyond the word ‘after’. How could she when the buttons of his slim cut shirt strained to do their job?

All of the sudden, the day felt warmer than 28 degrees.

“Molly? Did you hear me?”

“I’m sorry. Em…What? What were we talking about?”

He rolled to his side. The tree provided excellent cover from the fading sun but Sherlock made no move to take off his shades. Molly felt his eyes travel up her bare legs, roam the heart-shaped neckline of her dress. “ _We_ weren’t talking about anything, _Mol-ly_ Hooper. I asked what you’ve been up to all day. Your face is a bit pink. The imagination reels with all sorts of mischief.”

He could’ve requested long overdue test results and his rich baritone, gliding over the syllables of her name, would’ve had the same effect, drowning her in images from the dog-eared passages of her paperback.

She fussed with her ponytail. “I, em…em… Oh, you know. Just read. Stuff. Medical stuff…just a few things I, em, downloaded…”

_Shut up Molly._

“Mmmm. Medical. Stuff.” The words dripped like whiskey from his mouth onto her skin. Warm and tingly. “Sounds… _scintillating…_ ” He captured her feet in one hand, pressing wet kisses to either side of her ankles. She yipped in surprise. Sherlock’s thumb traced the arch of one foot, feather-light circles that made her hold her breath. There wasn’t an inch of her skin he hadn’t mapped with his tongue over the last three months but his touch still sent little electric shocks down her spine.

Sherlock flicked his tongue along the edge of her other instep.

Molly clapped her hands over her mouth to keep a loud moan from crossing the green, her body puddling under his soft touch. She was normally so ticklish...

He smiled against her skin. “I always know when you’re lying.”

“Mmmmm... Wait. What?!”

“You have a tell. Hooper.” His wicked fingers crept up her legs. “You fidget with your ponytail while constructing your lies. And you dislike reading off your mobile screen, especially in daylight. So. What scandalous piece of literature could possibly make your face flush and prompt you to fib?” His fingertips floated back down to her ankles then up to her knees, a route of chaste pleasure suitable for an afternoon in the park.

There was nothing virginal about his fingers.

She was at a supreme disadvantage, what with her feet now pinned by his arm. She exhaled through her nose and retrieved the book from her tote. “You win.”

“Always. And I mete out my punishments accordingly.” Sherlock kissed both shins as reward for her surrender. “'Dark Dealings With A Duchess'. Hmmm. Historical biography is it?”

He had a leisurely way of teasing that made his condescension bearable. Molly hated that she let him get away with some of his lesser offenses but she picked her battles. Her brain couldn't stand long against her arousal. He'd honed that boyish, arrogant charm over his forty years. And in the last decade, discovered its limitations. He may never heal completely from some of the most recent lessons...

As for their relationship, Sherlock no longer jabbed at her. He didn’t use his words to push her away.

Now he needled her just enough to pull her closer, get a rise out of her and quicken her pulse.

Then he kissed her feet.

In today’s case, literally.

And she liked it.

“Oh shut up. Not everyone can spend all their time collecting esoteric knowledge.” She folded her arms across her chest and took a sudden interest in the musicians tuning their instruments - even though she couldn’t see the bandstand clearly from this far back.

“No. You’re absolutely right…” Sherlock flipped through the paperback. “Here.” He handed the book back to her, opened to one of the dog-eared sections. “Read to me.”

Molly’s eyes went wide. “You’re…you aren’t serious.”

He rolled onto his back again and sighed. She missed the weight - the heat - of his hands on her bare skin.

“Yup.” He popped the last consonant off his lips. He'd say no more until he got his way.

She set her jaw and stared into the middle distance.

It wasn’t the imperious nature of his command. She'd warmed to his manner at their first meeting. It was the embarrassment of reading the… _activities_  of the duchess and her vampire duke in public. With people setting up all around. Yes, the deep shade of the alder cut them off from even their closest neighbors. Yes, the music and general din of the crowd would contain her voice to this tiny, dark oasis. But her body…

Her nipples would grow taut, rubbing against the thin cotton dress. Her slick heat would collect between her legs and become unbearable. Her inner muscles would ache. She’d need to squeeze her thighs together, hoping to create enough low-level friction to satisfy her swollen clit until they got back to her flat.

A breeze could stir the hem of her dress, freeing the undeniable scent of her growing need. And Sherlock would comment on it, as he always did, in reverent - often filthy - language.

She couldn’t do it. They were _here_. In _public._

And he was waiting.

Molly picked up the book and began to read aloud.

 

“‘He worked Lady Georgiana’s breasts with deft fingers and tongue, lathing her swollen nipples through the muslin of her shift. Her breath quickened as she leaned into the exquisite torture, silently begging him for more…’”

Sherlock grunted, a self-satisfied sound, but didn’t speak. Nor did he move from his spot on the blanket, opaque lenses still obscuring his eyes even though the sun had dipped behind the trees.

A woman introduced the evening’s musicians, but they were beyond range of the speakers to make out more than a few of her words.

Molly continued reading. “‘…and he rent the thin fabric in two, releasing the turgid peaks of her breasts from their captivity…’” Molly giggled. “Who uses the word ‘turgid’ in real life?”

No response from Sherlock, just a long, petulant sigh indicating that one wouldn’t be forthcoming and that she should keep reading. “‘He kissed her soundly, devouring the duchess’s hungry mouth before setting his lips to her slender neck, her skin the color of moonstone…’”

Music drifted across the hushed green, lush and enchanted, a perfect summer evening with a score to match. Molly paused to listen, watching Sherlock’s beautiful fingers tap out the rhythm against his thigh. There wasn’t a piece of classical music, especially one composed for strings, that Sherlock didn’t know at least a few notes of, if not entire movements.

She envied him that knowledge.

Then again, he couldn’t name any prime ministers after Thatcher so she had that on him.

They lounged in companionable silence enjoying the string quartet, the warm weather.

“What happens after the vampire duke sets the duchess’s turgid tits free?”

Molly opened her mouth but no clever response materialized. She scanned ahead a few paragraphs. “Looks like more of the same. You know ‘lips, blah blah blah’ and ‘hands, blah blah blah.'” She snapped the book shut.

“Oh, Molly.” He propped himself up and fixed her with what she knew was a piercing blue stare, if only she could see his eyes. Perhaps it was better for the coil in her belly that she didn’t see them. “Turn to page 310—“

“I…I haven’t gotten that far yet.”

“Trust me.” He took one of her feet in his strong hands and started massaging the sole. “It won’t spoil the plot for you.”

“I…em…”

“Please.”

“Oh…em...ok…” Molly flipped to 310 and skimmed the page. She held the book in front of her face, obstructing his view of her deepening embarrassment. “I...I don’t know where to begin —“

“Why not start with ‘He traced a path to the core of her…’”

_How did he know this passage even existed?_

“Em…ok. 'He traced a path to the core of her, cupping her mound in the palm of his hand and sending a jolt of exquisite pleasure to the tips of her fingers.'"

“Mmmm, that’s it. That’s the paragraph.”

She felt his tongue swirl over the ball of her foot, then hot, humid breath on her skin as he sucked her painted toe between his teeth. “Oh! God!” Molly’s head fell back against the tree trunk and a jolt of exquisite pleasure traveled to the tips of her fingers.

Sherlock lavished the same treatment on the other four, kissing and blowing and sucking each toe as music filled the space around them. “I like your toes this color, Molly.”

“Ah uh.” She squirmed under his hands, his mouth. She didn’t know if it was the wine, the sultry weather or their location - on a public green - but Molly could feel everything from the scent of his posh soap to the sound of his voice _inside_ her skin, like some sort of magic spell that attached feathers to the physiological data rippling through her nervous system.

“I’m sorry. I should stop so you can continue reading.”

Molly almost whimpered at the loss of his mouth on her skin. “Em…Em…okay. Okay,” she breathed, unable to focus on the typeface. “‘Are you aching for me, duchess, he growled. Do you want me here? He parted her slick folds…'” Molly swallowed hard.

“Yes?”

“‘He parted her slick folds and…and..dipped a finger inside her. When she cried for more, he slipped a second, then a third—’”

“Mmm. This duchess of yours is a greedy little thing.”

Molly blew out a breath and continued. “‘He stroked her pulsing flesh and whispered into her ear You’re a greedy little thing, Duchess…’”

“Hmm mmm.” He pressed a smile to the top of her foot. “Told you. Do go on.”

Sherlock Holmes was an absolute fuck.

Molly couldn’t get enough of him, despite her embarrassment.

Or maybe because of it.

“‘…and she eased into his caress, her desire soaking his fingers…”

Sherlock skimmed his palms over her shins. He kissed each of her knees then swung his body round, his face so close to hers she felt the heat of him radiate across her eyelids. His hands continued under the hem of her skirt, sliding upward at a glacial pace.

“Take my sunglasses off for me, Molly.”

It was a straightforward request charged with so much electricity.

As a professional woman in a male dominated field, Molly endured perpetual prejudice, working tirelessly to stake her claim in the lab and the mortuary among men who thought her patience and perseverance signified a lack of confidence. Hell, even Sherlock tested her mettle in the early years of their acquaintance. He abandoned that practice quickly. She made assistant head of the department while the rest of the boys argued over cases. She neither lacked confidence nor the ability to wield it with kindness. What was so horrible about being nice? Sherlock was well acquainted with her strength. After their _I love_ _yous_ , he'd asked if she’d do him the honor of complying with his demands, Molly gave her enthusiastic consent. Without hesitation.

Call it submission, obedience or whatever you like, she’d told a friend, but don’t dare call her weak or feeble or grossly smitten. There was a dignity and trust to their relationship that could only exist precisely because she wasn’t any of those things. And he adored her for it, starting with their first night together, kneeling before her in the center of his sitting groom, abdicating his power and worshiping her in penance for close to a decade’s worth of squandered opportunities. Their relationship had blossomed into one in which the power dynamic couldn't survive without intimate communication and deep emotional connection.

Molly lost that friend to her explanation...

She raced to do as Sherlock had asked, fingers shaking slightly as they skimmed his temples. Molly knew his eyes would glitter even in this smoky darkness, an alchemy of desire and dominance that turned the blue to steel gray. Hunter. Pirate. Once uncovered, she’d have no means of escape. His hands pinned her to the earth. His gaze would pin her to _him._

She slid the frames off his face. There wasn’t a candle or beam of artificial light within ten feet of them and yet his irises shone like the moon. Molly punched out a breath and leaned forward, waiting.

_Wanting._

Sherlock placed a sweet kiss on her lips. He spoke against her mouth. “And did you do what I asked of you several weeks ago?”

It was a rhetorical question, she knew. Sherlock's hands crept up her legs seeking the tactile answer rather than a verbal one. His fingers slipped between her thighs, encouraging her to open for him. He sighed into her mouth as his pinky fingers grazed her coarse hair. “No pants. Good girl.”

Lips still pressed to hers, Sherlock parted her mouth with his tongue, stealing breath and plundering, never allowing her to capture him. The building pressure of his fingers against her mound upset her equilibrium. Molly grabbed hold of his shoulders no longer able to tell sky from ground. He slid bony knuckles up the length of her seam, barely slipping between her folds then back out again to brush by her swollen clit.

“Sherlock…” His name was a prayer and a plea.

“Mmm… No pants whenever you spend an afternoon in the park.” He continued his delicious assault, nipping at her bottom lip while his fingertips grazed the sensitive skin above her bikini line. “Do you know why I want you naked under your prim, thrifted skirts, Molly?”

She had no idea but after the first few times she’d done it, she'd gotten over her self-consciousness, relaxed into the sensation. Her pubic hair rustled against the fabric. Her mind often wandered to scenarios involving park benches and one posh arsehole with an elegant, long cock…

Molly's head fell to his shoulder. "Ahhhhh..."

“No matter where I am or what I’m doing, I like to think of you enjoying your day off, bare and possibly dripping wet…oh, what’s this…?” He plunged two fingers deep inside her. Molly keened against the pulse in his neck. “No ‘possibly’ about it, Miss Hooper. You’re good and wet.”

“Yes,” she breathed, still holding onto him lest she fall back, spread her legs wide and beg for Sherlock's attentions right here before God and half her neighbors.

He worked her with an agonizing slide and retreat, watching her face with usual intense focus. Slide. Retreat. Slide. Retreat. He thrust just long enough for Molly to see the white hot edge of her release.

And then he removed his fingers.

Sherlock rested the tips on her bottom lip. “Suck your juices off my fingers, Molly.”

She was so hungry for him she almost swallowed his hand.

“As I was saying, I like knowing that you’re soaking wet and unencumbered by the plain white cotton pants you favor - although I do like you in those - should I take time out of my day to visit you in the park.”

Sherlock's fingers fell from her mouth, trailing a wet line across her clavicle. He dipped them lower, tracing the ruffled edge of her dress. She imaged pale phalanxes like pristine marble set in relief against her freckled chest. Molly’s nipples hardened, buds clearly visible under the thin fabric.

He rolled one between his thumb and index finger, smiling to himself as he watched her squirm beneath his touch. Molly let go and arched her back, hands resting on the ground for support.

To the casual observer, they were just like any other couple taking in the concert, fully clothed and moved to kiss each other by the beauty of the music.

Except that Molly wasn’t wearing any pants.

“You know, deeper into the grove, where it becomes the Battersea Woods, was once a popular spot for cruising.”

“And you know this how, Mr. Holmes?”

He chuckled and bit her nipple. Hard.

“Aaaahhhowww!”

Someone several feet away shushed her.

“Yes, Molly, do try to keep it down. Some of us prefer the sound of the quartet to your caterwauling.”

“You. Are. The. Worst.” She forced each word out through grit teeth.

Sherlock’s face loomed above hers, his lips stretched wide, a tight-lipped grin worthy of the Cheshire cat. He grazed her cheek with wet knuckles before wrapping his fist around her ponytail. “And. You. Miss. Hooper. Will. Pay. For. Your. Insolence.” He punctuated his words with a tug on that silky tassel he loved so much.

They stared at each other in silence before he kissed her nose and pointed at the book. “Read.”

It was physical and emotional whiplash of a sort. Sherlock was a master at determining which causes would produce mutually beneficial effects.

Molly was a gifted research associate.

Her voice shook. “Where was I?”

“Page 311.” He collapsed back onto the blanket and closed his eyes.

“Thank you.” She flipped to the page and started from the top. “‘…take you home, tie you up and have my way with you…'” Molly snorted.

Sherlock opened one eye. “Don’t make me ask you again.”

“Why? Will you take me home, tie me up and have your way with me?” She snorted. Again.

“Take you home? Not tonight. No.” His tone was deliberate. It rattled her.

Molly wanted back in his good graces, needed to curl up next to him and purr while he pet her, soothed her to sleep. Mostly, though, she’d hoped for a good beating and a hard fuck. He’d wound her up all evening, the last thing she could stand was to be sent home, alone, on a gentle scolding and orders not to touch herself.

She blew out a breath and returned to the book. “'…and then the vampire duke was between her legs, where she’d wanted him over these lonely, desperate one hundred years, lapping up her musky perfume—'“

“I admire a man of action, even if it did take him a century to finally dive in.”

“The two of you have that in common.” Molly said so without accusation or flirtation. It wasn’t her intent to goad Sherlock, to mock him. She thread the fingers of her free hand through his.

He squeezed back. “I’m endeavoring to make up it up to you, _Mol-ly_ Hooper.” He caressed the Ls as though they were the most fragile substance known to man.

The sound shattered her heart and fused it back together in the same beat.

She brought his hand to her lips and kissed each fingertip as Mendelssohn’s notes drifted through the air.

 

 

“‘…her hand in his as the vampire duke guided the duchess’s unpracticed fingers down to play in her own swollen seam—‘“

Sherlock laughed. “I’m disappointed in the author. If ever a passage cried out for the word ‘turgid’, this would be it.” He’d repositioned himself, head in her lap playing with her free hand while Molly held the book in her other.

“Mmm hmm. Sherlock, how did you know what pages to have me read?”

His tone was mischievous. “I’m a fan of Lavinia LaDuce’s work.”

“Oh, you just read her name off the cover. Seriously. Tell me.”

“I spied it on your desk last week.”

“And you just happened to skim through it and memorize which pages contained the sexy passages?

“Don’t be ridiculous. I chatted with the people who run the Regency Sex Finder thread on Reddit.”

“Modern crime work have you spending a lot of time on Reddit?”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Is that how you knew about the cruising in Battersea Woods?”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Doubtful Mr. Holmes.” She bent down and kissed his nose.

“Page 345.”

“Hmmm?”

“345. Read.”

It was nearing ten o’clock. Yellow vapor from lights along footpath glowed in the distance but dissipated before reaching their dim little camp under the alder. Molly flipped to the page and held the book close to her nose, weak moonlight the only source of illumination. “‘And then the vampire duke kicked off his breeches and settled between her legs. His length cradled in the warmth between their bellies. The duchess groaned, her hips rocking against his, an invitation to be ruined for all eternity or at least until dawn when the vampire duke would leave her once more for his coffin —‘ OK, even I know how silly this book is, Sherlock. I’m not a ninny.”

“I never said any such thing.”

“No. I mean, I know,” she stumbled, trying to formulate her thoughts. “I just want you to know. I read these books…romances…I know what real life is. I just read them because my mind can’t take in all the minutia you love to collect 24/7. I just like…” Her voice trailed off. God, she didn’t want him thinking her a simpleton with a duchess complex. She was a surgical pathologist for goodness sakes! She tried again. “I just, em…like…”

“You like the sex, Molly. No need to couch it. You like your porn on the printed page rather than in the cinema. You literary minx.”

“Um…,” He was right. Always the simple truth from this complicated man. “Yes, well…Yeah.”

“You know what I like?”

Molly knew several things he liked but she was always up for gathering this type of minutia.

“I like the way you smell. Not your perfume, the lilies of the valley, or the hand sanitizer that clings to your skin.” He turned his head and buried his nose into her abdomen. “I like the way you smell _here,_ especially when you aren’t wearing any pants on a dreadfully humid day. You’re so warm. Rich. You eat a lot of tomatoes. And salmon.”

Molly sucked in her breath as his hands roamed under her hem once more.

“I want to eat your pussy.”

She nodded, nearly snapping her neck in agreement. “If we, hmmm, if we walk it’ll take half an hour to get back to my flat. Or we could dash over to the Broomwood Road and see there's a taxi—”

“Oh no. I’m rather impatient this evening.” He sunk his nose into the fabric of her dress and inhaled. “We’re not going anywhere, Hooper, until I’ve licked you dry.”

“What?!” Her mind ticked off twenty good reasons why they should race back to her flat and cap off their evening in the privacy of her own bed (or on her kitchen work surface or in her very large shower) but Molly’s body throbbed under Sherlock’s expert oral tuning, nerves shimmering at the sound of his words. She knew he wouldn’t be satisfied (nor she) until he got his way. Still, Molly couldn’t help mount a weak defense of her modesty. She leaned over, lips against his ear, “But…but we’re in public, Sherlock.”

His voice rumbled in the pit of her stomach. “Molly, you don’t give Mendelssohn’s Sherzo in A minor enough credit. It’s an ardent piece and perfectly capable of holding our neighbors in thrall while I bury my face between your legs. I’ll bring you successfully to orgasm before the quartet finishes.”

His eyes met hers, a luminous, youthful expression transmitting his desire to please directly to her core. She’d never been able to resist him when his face glowed with such eagerness even as she knew, once her consent was given, his face would darken, the plush lips quirk up at one corner.

And her beautiful boy turn clever captor.

Sherlock was a pirate of infinite ability choreographing situations to his liking, producing advantageous outcomes for all. In most cases. The immediate circumstances, however, seemed less likely to generate anything but a stage on which he could exhibit his genius.

This was where deep reservoirs of trust came into play - and strict, carefully expressed prior consent. Molly trusted him, without question, to hold her in the protective palm of his hand, even when drawing her into petty danger.

Like sex in a public place.

The emotional context of his _I love you_ held that kind of sway.

She settled back against the trunk. “How long is this bit of music then?”

He took that as his cue and sprang to his feet. “Roughly twenty minutes. So, I have just enough time…,” he rummaged through the interior pocket of his suit jacket, “…to…ah…here we go.”

Sherlock produced al length of rope and dropped back down to her eye level. “Give me your safe word, Molly.”

The timbre of his voice was cream in her coffee, rich and heavy, altering the entire experience with a simple addition.

Molly’s heart fluttered in anticipation. “Cadaver.”

“Good girl.”

 

Molly closed her eyes and inhaled. He’d chosen a newer hemp length knowing she liked its verdant scent and softness against her skin.

Sherlock preferred jute. The fiber appealed to his OCD, holding the shape of decorative knots better when he was feeling elaborate. It added a rougher edge to their play when the mood struck him.

The Woman fulfilled his brain’s need for battle. And his body’s occasional desire for a beating.

Molly was secure in her appeal to Sherlock’s heart.

“Give a little tug, Molly. Tell me how it feels.”

“Mmmm.” The rope, wrapped in a loose coil around the tree trunk and knotted in a way as to keep her wrists at her sides, felt snug. There was a tiny bit of slack, however, a safe space in which Molly could struggle against his strength without worry of Sherlock misinterpreting her protest.

He bit her earlobe. “Safe word again?”

“Cadaver,” she whispered.

“That’s my girl.” He stroked her jaw with his thumb. Sherlock’s phalanxes, those elegant bones of his fingers, drifted in front of her face. She’d expected that opaline skin to be cool like marble. When he’d first touched her - a handshake on his second visit to the mortuary, the fleeting press of his palm against hers - Molly was struck dumb by the heat he produced.

Now she waited for him to scorch her.

The quartet made light work of Mendelssohn’s first measures. Notes rising and falling from their strings. Sherlock nodded in the direction of the bandstand. “He adored Bach. In fact he revived nineteenth century interest in J.S. I should thank him for the gift…as I’m about to thank you, Molly, for your gift.”

His words tightened the strings in her belly. She felt slick between her thighs, a dull pulse at her core.

He stretched out on the blanket, horizontal to her, long limbs arranged to suggest only a casual interest in the evening’s programme. Molly knew better. Music was never far from Sherlock’s mind. Humming it, composing it… Playing it, especially his beloved Johann Sebastian, was an act of complete submission. She’d once read an entire medical journal while he practiced the same eight measures of a moderately difficult piece over and over and over again. Three hours straight.

He rested his head in her lap, content to do nothing but listen.

The tension in her deep muscles rose in response to the dancing notes and his sonorous breathing.

He propped up on his forearms and kissed her knee. “I must have the forbearance of a saint to deny myself access to you all these years. Wouldn’t you agree?”  
  
“You don’t believe in God. I think that precludes you from comparing yourself to the saints.”

A kiss to the opposite knee. “Mmmm.” He folded the hem of her sundress back to expose the tight little V where her coarse hair disappeared into the crease of her thighs.

Molly gasped as fresh air swept across her exposed pussy.

"I like that you don't wax it off, Molly. The hair traps your scent." He planted a series of soft kisses along her bikini line, arranging the voluminous fabric around her. "Although, I will say, I'd like to shave you one day very soon."

The sun had completely set now. Molly was relieved to note that, unless someone stood directly over them, the only person who'd have full view of her naked mound was Sherlock. His care for her comfort in this situation, as in all previous, made her bottom lip quiver.

How could her ex-friend not see how much he loved her?

“Lift your bottom, Molly.” He slid the tote under her bum, raising her off the ground. “Well now. A moveable feast.” He coaxed her leg to bend a bit at the knee and hinge out from the hip, allowing for deeper access.

Then he set his clever mouth to her core.

Molly nearly skipped out of her skin as his warm tongue traced either side of her seam. God! The noises he made! Lucious sucking as his lips devoured her. Sighs more resonant that his speaking voice as he explored her folds.

“You taste like you smell, Molly. Rich and salty. You make me want to fucking eat you alive.”

Molly’s hips thrust upward struggling to get closer to his mouth. With her hands restrained by her sides, she couldn’t grab his beautiful hair or pinch her own nipples. Or jam a fist in her mouth to keep from crying out.

She was at his mercy. All sensation supplied by him.

All for her.

He plunged his tongue inside her, teasing her muscles and moaning against her flesh. The sound-waves rippled through her core then vibrated over each of her vertebrae. She felt like a goddamn human xylophone.

She closed her eyes, lost to the internal thrumming.

He stroked two fingers inside her, knuckles slightly bent, tugging at her outer lips with each patient thrust.

“Open your eyes, Molly.”

“Hmm mmm???”

“I said ‘open your eyes’ or I’ll stop everything.”

She took a deep breath and let go of the hazy sensual blackness behind her eyelids.

“There’s my girl. Don’t close them.” he ordered. “You’re much more vocal when they're open. I’ll not have you hiding those noises inside your own private party. Is that understood?”

Molly nodded her agreement.

“Good.” Sherlock slipped a third finger inside her and ran his tongue along the sensitive crease of her pubic arch. Then his thumb was there, gliding over the wet streak left by his mouth. Thin skin stretched over bone and he played it like a drum - a timpani - rolling a wicked tease over that skin, the hinge so close to her pussy, she could come just by him touching her there.

He coaxed a deep, muffled moan from her lips. “Ohhh… _Sherlohhhhck._ ”

“Mmm. See? That’s what I like to hear.”

Sherlock's mouth returned to her mound, gently massaging her clit between his plush lips, flicking his wicked tongue over it. Circling and sucking and flicking.

He spoke into her hair. “A rare miscalculation on my part. Your pussy is so ripe and delicious but now that I’m here, I find myself wanting access to your tiny little bud. But…I can’t get there as easily as I want.”

Sherlock’s tongue darted down to the trail between her pussy and her arsehole. The angle of her body, the agonizing give of her bonds, limited her ability to present herself fully to him.

Molly groaned in protest and felt his lips at her perineum in response.

“Note to self. Next time order Molly to insert the pretty red plug up her bum before taking to the park. How much fun would that be? If I can't get at your arse, the least I can do is have a silicone surrogate do my bidding.”

 _Rare miscalculation_ indeed. Sherlock panted with his own excitement. He’d planned for every conceivable development tonight.

He had no intention of pleasuring her arse. Only to tease her about it.

It worked. The tight ring of muscle clenched involuntarily at his suggestion. 

His was a brand of exquisite torture she’d been right to seek out. To wait for.

“Sherlock. Please…” Molly’s pussy contracted, trying to quicken the slide and retreat of his bony fingers.

“You’re greedy, Hooper. And sopping wet. Look at your pubic hair glistening in the moonlight. Gorgeous.”

Time faded into music as he lapped at her again, stroked her deeper. She watched him, could no longer make out where her body ended and his began. Her skin prickled with the heat, the friction and an unrelenting desire to have Sherlock on top of her, inside her. Commanding her to come.

Molly knew, as sure as she did her own name, that Sherlock wouldn’t let her come until the music was nearly over. She had no knowledge of this piece, these measures, only the movements of his strong hands and the corresponding ache they produced in her belly, her lower back.

The coil wound tighter, aided by his humming along to the notes.

He tipped his head up and grinned, his normally frosty complexion ruddy from exertion, lips stung from suction.

If she could only reach for his face, pull him to her mouth…

Sherlock nodded to their nearest neighbors, a couple reclining about ten feet away. “Look over to your left, Molly.”

A woman sat sipping wine, enthralled by Mendelssohn’s mastery.

Her companion, however, had turned slightly away from the music. He was watching _them._

Molly stiffed under Sherlock’s hands.

“Shhhhh. Molly.” His tone soothed. And challenged. “He can’t make anything out clearly, can’t see how lovely your face is when you're receiving pleasure.” Sherlock’s fingertips applied a bit more pressure to the tight, spongy center of her pussy. “His imagination is only filling in the details of what he _thinks_ he sees. Give me your safe word if you’re uncomfortable and I’ll stop this instant.”

He blew a stream of warm air over her clit. Molly knew there wasn't a chance in hell she'd take the out now. She wanted to come all over Sherlock's face, thank him for pleasing her.

“Safe word, Molly, if you want me to end that gentleman’s daydream and my adoration of your pussy.”

She nodded once.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth kicked up. “Hopper, your trust never fails to humble me.” He buried his head once more in her lap and sucked her clit into his mouth, lathing and tugging with practiced control.

Sherlock’s fingers moved faster, deeper as she reached the peak. His lips cradled her little pink seed, drawing her in and out of his mouth.

Molly’s thighs trembled. She arched upward as much as the hemp rope would allow, urging him to devour her, to release her.

“Come for me, Molly.” He sighed into her core and she blew apart around the sound, strings snapping, the inky night wrapping around her, carrying her on the breeze along with the last notes of the music. 

The crowd erupted in applause, cheering. The quartet took their bows somewhere in the distance. Sherlock smiled against her mound, holding her there until the spasms subsided. He kissed the insides of her thighs, slick from his saliva and her wetness, and stroked her lower legs, ankle to knee and back again.

Molly breathed through her nose, following the music out into the atmosphere behind her heavy eyelids. She felt Sherlock's body heat around her as he untied her hands, placed a kiss on each wrist. But she couldn't focus on his features in the dark, in her stupor. Eyesight was of no use to her. Nor taste if she couldn't kiss him, suck her wetness off his lips. Unless Sherlock was going to let her rub her nose in his trousers, inhale his posh soap and raw _maleness_ , what good was smell now? Hearing? Molly heard his humming softly while he coiled the rope and collected the tote from under her bum. But her nervous system was still communing with Mendelssohn. Romance and fantasy, grace and control. She'd remember this piece of music, every measure, each note, for the rest of her life. She didn't need to hear it again to feel it.

She was only tactile sensation now. Every molecule of her body plucked by his elegant, loving fingers. Molly floated through the reverberations on her way back to the surface. She felt Sherlock's hands on her waist. He lifted her and slid her across his lap, cradling her in the space between his legs. She felt the rise and fall of his chest behind her, the powerful bones of his arms crossed around her in a protective, vice-like hug. Feather-light kisses across the top of her head, the back of her neck, at the knobby ends of her bare shoulders. They breathed together, watching the cheery crowd pack up and disperse from under the alder, wrapped in the safety of their own silence.

The grove was nearly empty when she stirred, stretched her arms overhead then back to wrap around his waist. She smelled sex mingle with sweat. He handed her the water bottle from her tote and she took a long drink. 

Sherlock drained the last of the wine from her plastic picnic goblet before dipping his head over her shoulder, turning her chin so he could look at her face.

He kissed her eyelids and the broad, tight-lipped smile she fell in love with stretched across his face.

"Thank you."

They'd been sleeping together for three months and his simple words still had the power to make her blush uncontrollably. He'd just given her a mind-blowing orgasm and it was Sherlock who always thanked _her_ in a tone so reverent, she often wondered what she'd done to deserve it.

"I haven't forgotten about your earlier insolence, Hooper."

Molly felt her scalp tingle. "Oh?" She may be in line for that good beating and hard fuck this evening after all.

"But for tonight, I'm going to carry you back to your flat, feed you an omelette and then draw you a bath." He stood up and offered her his hand.

She placed her hand, her trust, in his. He'd circle back to her punishment exactly when and where she needed it. They had an agreement. Better than that. They had a relationship. "Would you mind playing your violin for me while I bathe?"

Sherlock kissed the top of her head. "For as many hours as you like."

"Do you happen to know any Mendelssohn?'

His laugh was low and seductive, rolling out from his chest. "I love you Molly Hooper."

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

\- FIN -

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you (thank you!) for reading, commenting, kudo-ing.  
> This is a little 'time out' from Do [No] Harm which will wrap up shortly. Just needed an angst break. If you don't, head on over and enjoy!


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